


Ceci n’est pas…

by mokuyoubi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>If you weren’t looking for the downward slant at the corner of his mouth, the shadow behind his eye, the energy tightly coiled and barely held in check beneath the tidy lines of his suit, you never saw it.</i> Eames just wants to see beneath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ceci n’est pas…

It had all started with an idea—a joke, really—Yusuf and Ariadne musing idly about what an adorable little subconscious Arthur must have, dressed all up in 1930’s Hollywood fashion and glamour, the figures populating it gliding around and engaging in clutches in soft focus. Yusuf knew better, at the very least. Real dreams didn’t operate under the same constraints as shared dreams, but Ariadne had been smiling and her eyes had lost that haunted, hunted look they’d worn since Cobb had parted from them at the airport, so Eames hadn't commented on it.

They’d fallen silent when Arthur had joined them at the table. He'd straightened his cuffs and given them a suspicious look, lingering pointedly when his gaze reached Eames, and Ariadne had hidden her smile behind her palm, joyous and obvious. Then Arthur’s lips had twitched, and he’d let the moment pass without pressing the issue, because no matter how Eames liked to tease, Arthur saw all the same things he did, just as clearly. 

So they had dined on Saito’s dime, and as the evening had worn on and the alcohol had flowed more freely, their laughter had come more easily, and Eames had forgotten entirely about it because it hadn’t even been anything _serious_. That didn’t explain at all the way he’d woken suddenly the next morning from a half remembered dream, suddenly obsessed with knowing what went on in Arthur’s subconscious. 

The problem with Ariadne and Yusuf, and even Cobb and Saito, was that they looked at Arthur and thought they had him all figured out. That was part of his mystery that Eames could appreciate—how simply he portrayed himself. If you weren’t looking for the downward slant at the corner of his mouth, the shadow behind his eye, the energy tightly coiled and barely held in check beneath the tidy lines of his suit, you never saw it. 

It wasn’t the first time Eames had wondered about Arthur, but it was the first time he wondered out of anything more than idle, passing curiosity. They’d worked other jobs together, both within dreams and without, with Cobb and others with less talent and fewer principles. It was probably four years ago that they’d met for the first time and Eames had never before felt compelled to get the answers lurking below the glossy surface of Arthur’s dreams. 

When Eames took the time to think about it, Arthur shouldn’t be so fun to prod and poke. There was no satisfaction because he never quite rose to the occasion. His eyes would flare at the initial instigation, but the comebacks never made it past his lips. It didn’t stop Eames from trying. 

Getting into Arthur’s dreams was almost disappointingly easy. After a heist as involving as their last, Arthur tended to sleep more often, and longer. None of them talked about their different methods of rejuvenation, but Eames thought that perhaps Arthur needed his own real dreams to put everything into context. 

Like this, safe in a secure room and lax with sleep, Arthur’s defences were low. Eames had to wonder if that meant he trusted them, or if Arthur simply didn’t care if others saw his dreams. 

Without a formula to make solid the connection and sharpen the images, Eames’ view of Arthur’s dream was more like an impression. They were outside in the summertime, the evening air sultry and humming with cricket song. All around was a swirl of colour, various shades of red and orange blurring together. It took a minute before they resolved into shapes—the low-slung swag of velvet tents, the bustle of crowd, the soft glow of lantern light—and the carnival settled into place around him. 

Eames’ forgery was a simple one, non-descript, created to slip into a target’s subconscious under the radar. It had served him well in the past, allowing him to avoid detection from projections. But this was Arthur’s dream and Arthur’s subconscious, and Eames’ presence, foreign though it was, went unmarked. 

The carnival sprawled out like a labyrinth, filled with vivid scents and sounds, but blurred at the edges. It was certainly not what Eames had anticipated. For one thing, it was messy, dust and dirt kicked up by the patrons and settling heavily on every surface. For another, the people here weren’t the neat, orderly projections Eames had come to expect from Arthur’s dream or subconscious. They were in modern dress, with stained clothes and skinned knees, and were normal and utterly mundane. It was all quite intriguing. 

As Eames made his way through the winding paths, he had to step high to avoid the fast growing flowers that blossomed, and duck to avoid the odd netting that hung, swooped, between food stalls and tents. “Who are you trying to catch, Arthur?” he murmured, and felt a smile toying at his lips. Everything he saw told Eames of Arthur’s desire for someone. Perhaps Ariadne, with her sweet little smile and old eyes, and her mind for paradoxes. 

Ahead, looming at the centre of the carnival, was a Ferris wheel, and the lights lining it flickered dully. It seemed as good a place as any to head. The closer he drew to it, the more solid the dream became. Instead of indistinct chatter, Eames could hear snippets of actual conversation. The smudges of colour on the food stalls became words and Eames saw they all sold only one thing: blackberries. 

Behind a blackberry pie stand and a tent advertising palm reading, the path opened up into a clearing. There were fewer projections here, and they were all quiet, roaming almost without purpose. Eames pushed through them towards the Ferris wheel, feeling as though something were propelling him—a hand at his back, a voice whispering in his ear, urging him forward. He stopped short when the projections cleared enough to allow him to see the base of the wheel. 

It was a good thing he had chosen a forgery, because Arthur’s subconscious had created its own projection of him. Dream-Eames was the Ferris Wheel operator, and like the other projections looked startlingly, realistically flawed. His hair had a heavy, unwashed look where it fell over his forehead and the skin left bare by a torn and dirty wife beater and jeans was smeared in oil and dust. 

Eames could have been offended, but he chose to be amused, instead. Especially when Dream-Eames shifted and gestured for the man behind him to take a seat on the Ferris wheel, and it was Arthur. He was laughably out of place—not nearly as polished as he looked in the waking world, or in his shared dreams, but still cleaner and neater than anyone else at the carnival in his blue button down with the sleeves rolled up and pressed slacks. Eames gaze was drawn to the open collar of the shirt, left undone three buttons down. A ruby necklace hung there, and even if Arthur were the sort to wear jewellery, he’d never wear something so gaudy. 

Dream-Eames reached out and Eames held his breath. He could only watch in shocked silence as his projected self drew a finger down Arthur’s neck, over his collarbone, and hooked in the chain of the necklace. Arthur didn’t start, or protest. He merely lifted his gaze to Dream-Eames’, eyes dark in the dim light. His lips moved, but Eames couldn’t hear over the other sounds of the carnival, and he edged closer, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. 

“—is superior, I assure you,” Dream-Eames was answering, when Eames was close enough to hear. Dream-Eames took his hand back and Arthur gave him a smirk. “Just sit down,” Dream-Eames said, and he spoke with a fair approximation of the fondness Eames always felt towards Arthur. 

Arthur stepped backwards and took a seat on the gondola. The restraints were far more complex than any Ferris wheel car in real life, with shoulder straps and buckles in addition to the lap bar. He fumbled with them, tugging at the adjustments on the strap. Now matter how much he lengthened them, they wouldn’t fit across his chest. 

“Here,” Dream-Eames murmured. He reached out, and when his hands brushed Arthur’s, the lights of the wheel flared brighter before guttering low again. No one within the dream seemed to take note. Dream-Eames’ hands shifted from Arthur’s shoulders, stroking down his arms before slipping his wrist through the strap and fastening it. The lights flared brighter still at the touch and dipped again, then almost set blazing when Eames lowered the gondola bar into place over Arthur’s lap. 

“Can’t have you falling on my account, can we,” the other Eames said, tone as good as a caress. 

It wasn’t a great mystery, what all the imagery meant, but Eames still had trouble processing it. There wasn’t even anything blatantly sexual about Dream-Eames’ touch, yet Arthur thrilled to it, leaning over the bar just to be closer. 

Without warning, the dream changed. It was both violent and fluid, all the colours of the carnival melting and converging then bursting outwards and settling into new shapes. Arthur was at the edge of a cliff. The sky on the horizon was ablaze with a red and orange sunrise. Beneath him the waves crashed against the wall, casting foam high into the air. 

There was no one around except the two of them, and if Eames lingered, he would be noticed. Even in a real dream Arthur would be suspicious. Eames concentrated on drawing back from the dream and opened his eyes in his own darkened bedroom. 

He lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling for a long while, letting the dream images drift through his mind, letting them take form and meaning. Slow and unbidden, a smile spread over his face. 

“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “ _Arthur_ , how very fascinating.” 

*

Yusuf had returned to Mombassa, but Ariadne lingered. She would say, “I really should be getting back to school,” but she made no move to schedule a flight, and no one called her on it. Eames was happy to stay as long as Saito would have him in his little Southern Californian palace. When they all dispersed, as they always eventually did after a job, Las Vegas was only a brief flight away. 

Why Arthur was staying, Eames wasn’t entirely sure, but he would have fun with it while he could. 

Arthur slept in late and Saito let Ariadne borrow his sleek little BMW. She put the top down and drove Eames along the coast, salt water whipping through their hair, stopping at four different roadside stands until they found a man selling blackberries. 

“Do I want to know?” she asked, eyebrow quirked, voice full of indulgent humour. 

Eames gave her a winning smile and popped a berry between his teeth. 

*

Arthur’s gaze kept flicking over the edge of his book when he thought Eames wouldn’t see. Eames was happy to let him steal his little glances, pretending not to notice. Instead, he focussed on the berries, tossed them in the air and tipped his head back to catch them in his mouth. His fingertips were stained dull purple from toying with the berries, rolling them between index finger and thumb. 

“Where did you get those?” Arthur asked at last. He was studying the words on the page before him with unconvincing intensity. 

Eames made a noncommittal noise and bit into another berry, smearing the juice around his lips. He held the box out to Arthur. “You want one?” 

Arthur didn’t look up, but his cheeks were a dull red, and he licked his lips. “They aren’t in season,” he said. 

“They're delicious,” Eames said, drawing the word out. 

“They’re probably doused in pesticides,” Arthur said. His eyes scanned back and forth, but Eames was positive he wasn’t reading anything. 

Eames got to his feet, crossing the space between them. Arthur, seat tipped back on two legs, lowered his book and tilted his chin to watch him. It felt almost like déjà vu, like Eames could reach out and catch Arthur’s necklace. Only this Arthur wasn’t wearing a necklace, and his shirt buttons were done all the way up. Eames, as always, just wanted to ruffle his feathers a little, see beneath the neat façade. 

“You should really try one before passing judgement,” Eames said, and held the box out again. 

Arthur jerked back, just a little, just enough to tip his precarious balance. Eames caught him around the arm to keep him upright and enjoyed the way Arthur’s eyes widened at the touch rather than any fear of falling. He waited as Arthur settled his chair back on four legs and gave Eames a pointed look, tugging his arm to free it. 

“Wouldn’t want you falling on my account, would we?” Eames said. 

And Arthur didn’t react in any pleasingly dramatic way. There was no gasping, or eyes narrowed in suspicion and recrimination. It was gradual. Arthur’s brow furrowed in confusion as he searched his mind; natural dreams were so much harder to remember. Then comprehension lit up his eyes as they darted over Eames’ face. He shook his head in mild disbelief and said, “You were in my dreams.” 

Eames grinned brightly at him. “I might have been watching, but that projection was all you, darling.” 

Arthur stood, and Eames didn’t take a step back. “You were in my dreams,” Arthur repeated. His expression was one of incredulous outrage. 

“In my defence,” Eames drawled, “you made it really easy.” 

“You’re trying to blame me? I didn’t invite you into my mind.” 

“Apparently you didn’t need to,” Eames said. “I was already there.” 

“You know, sometimes a dream is just a dream,” Arthur told him primly. “Merely the subconscious’ way of ordering thoughts and experiences. Your projection was just a piece of trash littering my mind.” 

Arthur’s lips were pursed in annoyance and anyone else might have taken it at face value. Eames, though, could see the glint of amusement in Arthur’s eyes. It sparked and curled at the corner of his mouth when Eames lifted a blackberry and held it to Arthur’s lips. “Sometimes a pipe is quite a lot more than a pipe,” he murmured. 

There was a moment’s pause before Arthur’s lips parted to take the berry. Eames had never been known for his self-control, and he’d exercised more than any person could be expected to, in his relationship with Arthur. He closed the distance between them and pressed their mouths together, chasing the flavour of the berry with his tongue. Arthur opened for him, hands coming to rest on Eames’ shoulders. 

Eames slid an arm around Arthur’s waist and tugged him closer. The box of berries dropped into Arthur’s abandoned seat; a shame, but Arthur’s mouth was far sweeter, and he was more temperamental than any wild harvest. 

Arthur turned his face from the kiss, but Eames wasn’t deterred. He trailed kisses along Arthur’s jaw, gave into temptation and bit at the delicate skin beneath, where Arthur’s pulse fluttered. 

“Why?” Arthur said, and Eames was pleased at the breathless quality to his voice when he spoke. “You always delight in telling me what a bore I am.” Eames hummed his agreement, sucking Arthur’s skin between his teeth. Arthur’s grip tightened, fingers curling in Eames’ sleeves. He dipped his head to catch Eames’ mouth in fast, definitely not boring kiss. 

“Why would you want to see my dreams?” Arthur asked against his mouth. 

Eames couldn’t get enough of Arthur’s skin now that he’d had a little and nuzzled at Arthur’s ear. He had the feeling this might get very dangerous very quickly, but he didn’t mind in the least. “You’ve got Ariadne and Yusuf fooled into believing there’s nothing more going on beneath your Prairie-style architecture and Givenchy suits, but I’m not convinced.” 

A full blown smirk spread over Arthur’s face, eyes dancing with mirth. “There are easier ways of seeing what’s beneath my suits,” he whispered, and arched one brow. “And they don’t involve sleeping.” 

“You know, Arthur, I’m really growing to like the way you think.” 

Arthur made a face as if to say _oh no, we can’t have that_ , but he didn’t resist when Eames drew him into another kiss. In fact, Arthur met him quite eagerly, walking Eames backwards. Arthur’s hands were urgent pulling at Eames’ shirt, sliding beneath to touch the bare skin of his back. He bit hard at Eames’ bottom lip and tugged when he leaned back, making Eames hiss. 

Eames took a hand from Arthur’s waist to touch his lip where it stung. “You’re not going to be at all as I expected, are you?” he asked. 

Arthur smiled lazily and caught Eames around the wrist, leading him from the living room. “Now, where would the fun be in that?” He asked, and the low husk drew shivers up Eames’ spine.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and pipe reference in the fic courtesy of René Magritte’s _The Treachery of Images_ and ensuing series.


End file.
